Chapter 22
I think I’m about to lose my job. I text my boss, Adria, another bullshit excuse about why I won’t be at work today, and thirty seconds after I send it, she rings. I cringe when I see her number, and I swear the blackbirds on the wallpaper cringe too.
“Hello?” I croak, making sure to sniffle loudly.
“Sarah?”
I sit up in bed, squeezing the bridge of my nose. Truthfully, Iamsick. I was feverish all night, stripped off all my clothes, and lay on top of the bed, sweating. I got up weakly for some water, and on the way back to bed, I nearly passed out. But that’s not why I’m calling in sick. I’ve got a plan for today, something I have to do, and I can’t exactly tell my boss what it is.
“I got your text,” she says tiredly. “I take it you’re not coming into work again?”
Oh, piss off, Adria.
“Yeah.” I squeeze the bridge of my nose tighter.
“May I ask why?”
I pull the phone away from my ear and swear softly.I’m going for the trifecta, Adria. I’ve lost my sister, my husband. Why not my job too?
“I’ve got the flu, I think. I’ve been under the weather lately. You can ask Emily.”
“Have you messaged your clients to let them know, at least?”
I wince at that. “Yeah, I’ve let them all know.”
Actually, I had only one client booked for today at 11a.m.I’m losing clients at an alarming rate, and even my regulars are conspicuously quiet. A sharp pain seizes my skull, and I bite my lip to keep from yelling. “I’ll be in tomorrow for sure. Thanks, Adria.”
“Okay,” she says unwillingly. “But this can’t keep happening, all right? Mercy Community prides itself on…”
I pull the phone away again because she’s making my headache worse. I reach for my bedside table, pop three painkillers, and fumble with the new box of my SSRIs.
“No problem.” I throw back my anti-depressants, swallow them down dry. “Thanks for being understanding. See you tomorrow.”
I end the call, swing out of bed, and throw some clothes on. I button my shirt and stare out the window as a lone cockatoo picks at the dirt of Susan’s grave.
I stop buttoning my shirt and let my arms fall to my sides. What made Bill Campbell murder his wife? By all accounts he was a loner, not well liked, but people say they had a solid marriage. And what made Amanda buy this house and then disappear? If Black Wood could talk, what would it tell me?
Where are you, Amanda?
Where are you, Janet?
I wait. I listen. But all I hear is that familiar cry.
Don’t kill me. Don’t kill me. Don’t kill me.
If the house can’t give me answers, maybe the neighbors can. I pick up my Friendly Neighbor Sarah cardigan, slacks, and gold necklace, but a wave of exhaustion hits me. It didn’t work last time on Kay Potts, and I’m too tired to try again with her.
I throw on the closest pair of tracksuit pants, my eyes on the twin graves. Today I’m going from door to door of this damn street, and I’m going to find out what happened to Amanda.
—
The sky is dove gray, and frail sunlight sneaks through gaps in the clouds. Of the five houses on the quiet street, only one door was answered. Mark O’Donnell is two doors down from me, mid-sixties and somber as hell when he realized who I was. I didn’t even get through half my spiel:Hi! I’m your new neighbor, Sarah. I live at Black Wood House. I was just wondering about the young woman who lived there before me? I think her name was—
Bang.
I flinched as he slammed the heavy oak door, feeling the vibration in my teeth. Dazed, I walked to the next house, a $1.1million beauty with a four-car garage. But the owners, the Charleses, didn’t answer. I thought I saw the lounge room curtains flutter as if someone was peeking out through them. I left, dejected, and stood on the bitumen road in the weak sunlight, thinking that I shouldn’t have bothered taking the day off. The Whitmans weren’t home, and Kay Potts didn’t answer, either, though her little dog barked furiously behind the door.
That leaves the last house, and I really don’t have a good feeling about this one. I stuff my hands into my pockets and stroll farther down the road. The first house on the street is a colonial, sitting on three golden acres of land. Native plants provide brilliant splashes of color against the blue stone walls: rows of sun-bright daffodils, and sprays of blood-orange Grevillea.
